


Fallen

by IlluminateandRelate



Category: The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Highschool au?, Janson is a rude ass teacher, M/M, Newt - Freeform, Newt is a fallen angel, The Maze Runner - Freeform, Thomas is clueless, cause duh, fallen angel AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-10
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2019-03-16 11:12:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13635120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IlluminateandRelate/pseuds/IlluminateandRelate
Summary: "What's your name?""Newt""That's a weird name for an angel,"The boy glared up at him from his spot on the ground, eyes narrowing sharply."We'll what's your name then?" He asked."Thomas""Angel dust," He... cursed? "That's bloody normal ain't it?"~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Thomas is nine years old when he goes camping in the woods with his mother. When he wakes late in the night to use the restroom a nearby rustling in the bushes proves the earlier sighting of a shooting star was really not a star at all.Newt is ten years old when he is cast from the heavens. A fallen angel. Weak and injured he is discovered by the young Thomas, a human boy.Seven years later their lives become that of angels, heaven, and god.*On hold until further notice*





	1. Boy From Heaven - Prologue

“And look, Thomas,” a gentle hand guided his pointed finger upward. “That’s Ursa Major,” a lead to the left “And that’s Ursa Minor.”

“I don’t get it,” he pouted.

His mother chuckled, “think of them as big spoons made of stars. Gargantuan cereal spoons for giants! Now see if you can find them”

Thomas squinted into the galaxies, spoons, spoons, find the spoons. _How could he see a spoon when all he saw was a wild spatter of stars?_ Each time he thought he could focus on one another one seemed to penetrate his field of vision creating an impossible set of probable focal points. His temples ached as he strained for the image. It was like looking at a solid wall of paint and expecting a picture to appear. A dull pain pounded behind his eyes and he groaned, closing his eyes.

“I still don’t get it.” He whined, rubbing his eyes with the pads of his fingers vigorously.

His mother sighed, “Here Thomas, open your eyes,” she instructed, her voice smooth and warm as she took his little hand in hers once again. He sighed and opened them to meet the vast blackness of the overhead sky, so much bigger and filled here than at home. “This line here” she dragged his finger along a pathway of stars, “and this-“

“Mommy did you see that!” Thomas jerked his head to the side; Any mention of big spoons forgotten as he gripped her wrist excitedly pointing to the end of what had been a silvery arch of light across the atmosphere just before it winked out.

“Oh, Thomas!” She beamed at him from where she lay, grabbing his shoulders and holding him. “It was a shooting star. Quick! Make a wish.”

Picking up her excitement he felt any before pain seep from him. As if it had run away as his veins rushed with the joy of surprise. He squeezed his eyes shut and thought quick and hard while trying to fight the smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. “I wish-“

“Shhh” she shushed him, “don’t tell me or it won’t come true!”

He opened his eyes and grinned sheepishly, “Oops.”

She smiled, “it’s alright, you didn’t say it now did you? It’ll still happen,” she kissed his cheek, “I’m sure of it.”

-

Thomas awoke with a strong urge to pee. He silently sighed, knowing he’d have to leave the warm comfort of his sleeping bag. He slowly wriggled out, the hairs on his arms immediately rising as they greeted the unforgiving night chill. He shivered violently, gritting his teeth together against the sharp temperature that seemingly sapping every bit of heat and warmth from his body at once.

Reaching out to snatch the cold metal flashlight beside where he slept. Quietly, he padded over to the tent flap and slipped on his tennis shoes before slowly unzipping the tent, cringing at the loud ripping noise of the zipper. He quickly glanced back over to where his mother snored softly, strands of hair strewn about her face as she slept. Thankfully she hadn’t woken. Thomas stepped out quietly into the woods, wearily rubbing his eyes as he trekked over to the port-a-potties. The pine needle-littered ground crunching beneath his feet with every step, he hurried along. His breath like little clouds in front of his face with every puff of the air, as he approached the dumpy blue plastic bathrooms.

Moments later he emerged, the heavy door swinging shut with a loud clatter behind him felt like the jump start of a gun at a race, a sudden and violent sound at which he flinched. The campground felt a lot larger at night, Thomas noted with unease. The large trees no longer felt like a comforting wall but rather an impeding prison. The dark shadows cast on the bushes from trees like black holes just waiting to suck him up, or rather like the dark caverns from which the monsters in his comics emerged. He swung his flashlight around frantically on each dark place nearby. Just to comfort himself, he knew the monsters weren’t real, deep down he knew. But what about wolves? Or bears? Bears lived in the forest, his quick pace begun again as he sprinted over to the tent across the grounds. Little footsteps thundering back with little concern as to the possible foliage nearby. The sharp chill in his lungs was piercing, and nearly painful but he kept focus on the orange tent. Thirty feet, twenty feet, ten fee- bam! Thomas grunted loudly as his whole body impacted the ground at maximum force. The loose pine needles slipped back atop the ground beneath his foot and sent him violently sprawling with a loud thump. Thomas winced at the sudden pain as he lay on the dirt, a sharp pain atop his nose causing his eyes to water. He’d gone from bolt upright running to board flat in a pathetic merger of seconds. The sharp needles poked into his hands that had unexpectedly flown out in an attempt to save his face as he stared at the ground beneath him with wide eyes. He groaned, rolling over onto his back before sitting upright and gently touching his fingers to the tip of his stinging nose.

“Ugh-“ he muttered in his recovery lower shivering at a mixture of the feel of his scraped up skin and the breeze that drifted through the air. It hadn’t hurt that bad, not really, but the feel of his broken skin was creepy and sent an off feeling through him he couldn’t quite explain. He had moved on from his nose and was inspecting the soft palms of his hands for damage levels gently when a loud snap sounded from somewhere in the bushes nearby.

Thomas froze; eyes widened as suddenly all the memories of the bears in the forest came flashing back. Bears, hungry, hungry bears. Bears to eat his flesh and wolves! Wolves to tear him apart with sharp teeth dripping with their previous kills blood. Thomas’s lower lip began to quiver, he felt himself slowly tuck his legs up into a little ball. Unable to get up like one of those fancy ice sculptures his mother always fawned over at the few parties she’d toted him to. The pain in his nose and hands had dissipated by now, the feeling replaced with a sharp urge to run, to hide, for his mommy. But no matter how badly he wanted to move it seemed as if he couldn’t, his muscles protested his brain, so taut and tense he was sure they’d cramp. A sob threatened to break in his throat and he only just managed to swallow it down before the loud cry could give him away to whatever thing lie waiting. His muscles had begun to shake, probably his brain egging them on to move. In the blackness, he held his breath, eyes wide expression animalistic. The boy’s imagination working overtime apparently, for no thought occurred to him that it could possibly be a rabbit or a deer. No. A bear, a wolf, a murderer? Absolutely.

From the bushes where the sound had emitted, it sounded once more. Sending the already shaking Thomas into full-on tremors his heart and mind like blowing train horns in his head screaming at him to run. For all the good the warning did he remained stationary upon the ground. The snapping had now heightened in volume, this time accompanied by a low groan and dull fluttering.

Thomas lifted a brow, staring wide eyes for a different reason now. Puzzled at the oddly humanistic noise, was there a person? He forced his cramped up muscles to move despite their protests. His brain’s before screaming quieted to a low roar. Subdued, like the dull thud of rain on a closed window. He took a deep breath, oxygen-starved lungs relaxing from their earlier pain as he stared determinedly at the bush. Gently he came up from his earlier fetal position on the ground, slowly, as of reluctant to break from the protective surface.

The groaned sounded again, this time more like a cry of pain. Thomas stood; he needed to know what was in that bush. Soundlessly, he picked up his flashlight, the metal now chilled from exposure. Eyes now set on the dark blob he began to approach slowly, heel to toe to be quiet just like his mother taught him. He inched forward, now just a few feet from the bush ignoring the earlier (embarrassing) urge to run. Something was alive in the bushes, yes, but that something was clearly not in the best shape.

He was so close now he could feel the tickle of the plant's slick leaves brush against his cheek. It was now or never. Soundlessly and all in one fluid motion he swung the flashlight in front of him and clicked it on. The golden beam shot out like a spotlight as he jammed it through the shrubbery and stuck his head in. Suddenly it was hard to breathe for an entirely different reason.

There in the bushes lying looking straight into his eyes was a boy. Around his age, he supposed, though it was hard to tell in the dark the one light only illuminating his face. Soft strands of golden blonde hair swept across his forehead delicately. His eyes a crystalline blue piercing to what Thomas felt was his gut. It was almost like being dipped in ice water, shocking and unbelievably sharp. Thomas’s eyes widened as the other boy blinked back fearfully. Unexpectedly he heard himself speak first

“Why are you in a bush?”

The other boy appeared momentarily lost like he wasn’t quite sure why either. Then his eyes cleared and widened. He lifted his hands; fingertips pink from the cold and looked at them slowly as if he weren’t quite sure they were real. Then he huffed, a large cloud of the mist like dragons breath clouding into the air. At the release of air, he winced and let out a sharp cry; followed by that same odd fluttering noise Thomas had heard earlier.

“What is that?” Thomas gibbered leaning forward further, “are you hurt? Do you know where your mommy or daddy is?” his gaze examined the rest of what was visible of the boy. Nothing seemed to be damaged. He took a large step forward into the shrubbery, feet tangling up into the sharp twigs and branches as they scraped against his ankles sharply. “Wait, I’m coming in.” The other boy was still oddly silent and Thomas was lost wondering what could possibly be the matter when he caught sight of the dark crimson soaked on his shirt. “Oh my god! You’re bleeding, you’re bleeding a lot actually,” he exclaimed voice rising in pitch as he began shining the flashlight rapidly around looking for the source of the blood. “Its okay, its okay” he seemed to be calming himself more than the other boy now fingers dancing around the boy's skin for a wound. “Don’t worry I’m going to get my mo-” Thomas’s fingers froze where they were.

The material beneath his fingers had gone from a rough, dirtied fabric to an unbelievably soft-feathered sort of plush. A soft gasp of awe escaped in the form of a misty breath as his fingers caressed the silky substance. It was unlike anything he’d ever felt; the temperature was neither warm nor cold but rather a temperature less structure. The soft down was interlaced with more strong yet still incredibly delicate formations of the same type. He was feeling them a bit more when a voice projected unexpectedly,

“Oi stop touching my wings would you?” Thomas whipped his head around looking for the voice, seemingly lost to where the sound came from before realizing the boy had finally spoken. Too surprised by the speech itself to pay attention to the absurdity of the words he quickly sputtered

“Oh- s- sorry, I was just looking for…” he trailed off, “wait, your what?” he jerked back snatching up the flashlight from where he’d dropped it and pointing it quickly to where he’d just been feeling. Immediately he could see what the darkness had hidden beneath its cast before.

Wings, more beautiful than any birds Thomas had even seen protruded from the other boys back just atop his shoulder blades. The shimmering gossamer feathers Thomas had felt earlier were an odd sort of rose-petal white. Upon first glance like freshly fallen snow, though when he looked closer they seemed to shimmer pastel rainbow hues almost like they couldn’t decide what color it was they wanted to be. The light danced off of them in sparkling winks blinking at Thomas in a hypnotizing manner. He stared, entranced at the slight curve of the magical feathers fighting the urge to squint, almost as if the wings themselves were too bright for him. He squinted forward. Trying to gather their exact shape that seemed to narrow as the feathers elongated sharply at the bottom when the boy moaned once more.

Thomas blinked harshly and looked at the boy's face once more. He looked back, lids half closed this time, eyes watering profusely. Thomas swallowed, a cold sweat erupting upon the back of his neck. His hands felt shaky, his palms clammy. Nervously he rubbed his hands together and blew a cloud of hot air to thaw his fingers. “I’m sorry,” he spoke, “I’m going to be right back, I’ll get my mommy. She’ll know what to do.” He turned to leave then pause, “what’s your name?”

He mumbled, barely conscious, “Newt.”

“That’s a weird name for an angel,” Thomas immediately clasped a hand over his mouth for admitting his assumptions aloud.

The boy glared up at him from his spot on the ground, eyes narrowing sharply.

“Well, what’s your name then?” He asked.

“Thomas."

“Angel dust,” He... cursed? “That’s bloody normal ain’t it?” Then his eyes rolled up into his head, lids sliding shut as Thomas scampered away to his tent his lungs burning from the icy night, a cold wet panic settled in his chest.


	2. 7 Years Later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place seven years later, Thomas is about 16.

Thomas stared at the clock, bleary eyes focusing in and out on the little hand circling painfully slow around the center circle, 2:45 PM. Five minutes left until his last class period, and it was only a Monday... not to mention the first day of school. The teacher had been reduced to a dull murmur in the background, blabbering about the syllabus sitting in front of him. The bright sun shone through the little slits in the blinds casting a pattern of horizontal lines across the tiny rectangular classroom unevenly warming bits of it. His leg shook impatiently beneath the table as he slowly clicked the ballpoint pen in his hand off with every passing second.

A small sharp object slowly pressed into his back piercing his thoughts of nothing and he flinched forward and spun around quickly in his seat to see his friend Minho staring innocently ahead at the teacher, hand folded neatly on the desk in front of him. Thomas glared at him and turned ahead again, this time attempting to listen to whatever useless information the teacher was preaching about when he felt the sharp poke again. This time he gritted his teeth, rolling his eyes as he waited for the sensation again. A few moments later he felt the pencil stab in between his shoulder blades again and he snapped around. Snatching the pencil from Minho's hand before he could feign innocence again.

Minho's eyes widened as the pencil was ripped from his grasp once more and Thomas grinned victoriously, making sure to hold up the pencil by his head a wiggle it mockingly. The bell rang and Thomas sighed with relief as the volume of the room grew rapidly with pointless chatter between the rest of the students. Chairs clattered loudly and the teacher's voice evolved into a loud shout to say his final words to the inattentive crowd. Thomas picked his backpack up the floor, lazily swinging it up over one shoulder as he snatched his printed schedule up off the floor.

"Oh thank god that's over," he groaned as he stood, stretching his previously crammed legs before turning back towards Minho and chucking the pencil into his face. "Fuck you."

  
Minho chuckled before shoving Thomas out the door, "you were bored out of your mind anyway. I was doing you a favor." He lifted his head puffing out his chest just slightly.

  
"By what? Shanking me in the back with that dagger of yours?" Thomas rolled his eyes as he trudged forward

"Exactly, shank."

"Okay then, shank" Thomas shot back before throwing out an arm to still his walking friend. "Wait a sec, I forgot what class I have next gimme a min-" He lifted his schedule in front of him inspecting the tiny font closely.

"Algebra 2 with Janson, we have it together remember" Minho snatched the paper from his grip, "I can't believe you still haven't memorized this shit." They resumed walking, turning the hall into the math wing, approaching the room.

"It's literally the first day of school," Thomas said shooting Minho a look before they stepped into the room, quickly scurrying over to two unoccupied seats.

Minho sighed in mock disappointment, "Excuses, Thomas, all just excuses. Also hey, did you hear they had to put a senior in Algebra 2, a senior."

Thomas rolled his eyes for what had to be the fortieth time that day, "Minho, that's actually a really common thing." He turned forward to face the teacher as the last few straggler students scrambled in with the ring of the late bell, not missing the last few words Minho mumbled of, not at this school it isn't before finally shutting up. The teacher Mr. Janson, whom Thomas noticed disturbingly resembled a rat stood up and began to pass Syllabus' down the rows.

"Good afternoon, My name is Mr. Janson and I will be your Algebra 2 teacher for the next two semesters." He spoke slowly, eyes analyzing each and every kid in the class before adding an "unfortunately". A few students laughed at this, some looked concerned, and others- Thomas noticed- like a girl named Harriet glanced around nervously. Thomas heard Minho mutter from behind, _the fuck?_ and suppressed a nervous laugh.

Janson continued passing the small packets of paper before carrying his way to the front of the room and placing the extras below his little overhead light on the desk. Thomas lazily picked up his own and was beginning to skim the papers when the door swung open hazardously and slammed into the wall behind with a loud thump. Thomas jumped, the syllabus fluttering out of his frozen hand, head turning towards the now thudding footsteps as a boy hurried inside. He closed the door quickly, hurrying up to the front where the teacher stood.  
"Sorry," he spoke, Thomas noticed an odd accent stuck to his words, "I'm a bit new, had a hard time finding my way around." Janson glared at him from the head of the room, his ratlike face narrowing into his nose as if it were his center of gravity.

"I take it you're Issac Newton then? A senior named after the greatest mathematician of all time in a low-level math. Kinda ironic don't you think?" Janson chuckled emptily as he handed Issac a syllabus, Thomas could've sworn he'd seen Mr. Jansons nose twitch.

Issac nodded, "well I suppose I've always been behind. Either I'm a bloody idiot or foster care fucked me sideways in the education department." His voice was calm, but Thomas could see his fist clutching the paper in his left hand tightly. Meanwhile, the class broke into murmurs at his uncensored language.

"Go take a seat, Mr. Newton, I'll see you after class to determine what time your detention should take place." Issac looked like he wanted to speak again, the taut muscles in his neck twitching as he swallowed. Obviously, he thought better of it though, and his chest fell as he let out a heavy breath, his hand loosening from its tight fist. The air in the room felt thick; the room silent as the boy's heavy footfall made its way to last remaining desk, subsequently to the right of Thomas.

"Okay let's begin going over the syllabus," Mr. Jansons voice trailed off into the background as Thomas glanced over to Issac. Now that he was closer he could make out his features a bit more. He had quite a delicate face, and what Thomas swore what had to be spun gold for blonde hair falling in small, delicate wisps down into his face as he looked down. The hair obscuring the rest of his face Thomas turned back to his own desk flipping the page and pretending to follow along with the rest of the class.

For the remainder of the period, he occasionally passed a look towards the other boy. He struggled, trying to decide what it was that had him keep looking. There was something there and not just a fascinating curiosity on a student who talked back. Something else, Thomas could sense it, feel its buzzing presence there like an unscratchable itch. Unseeable, unthinkable, the mere idea of whatever the hell it could be not existing but somehow, someway it felt.

He was on what had to be his eighteenth time glancing over when this time Issac's head whipped around, gaze meeting his.

"Something on my face?" He asked, staring directly into Thomas's eyes with his own set of deep brown when it clicked. Somewhere deep inside it was as if a light had been flipped on and suddenly five-hundred LEDs activated illuminating his brain. A stage was called forward and a crystalline memory shot through him like a jagged arrow. Bushes, boy, gold, brown eyes to stare into your soul. Oh, and how could Thomas forget the wings? It was odd, not like he'd forgotten, at least not necessarily, he just simply hadn't thought about it. It was ages ago when he'd found him, he must've been, what, nine years old?

Throughout the shockingly bright lights of his brain, he stumbled back from the sharp memory, managing to find his gaping mouth and utter one word.  
"Newt?"

It was him, Thomas had never been more sure about anything in his entire life, and the look on Newts face- an odd mixture of horror and relief just about seemed to prove it. He opened his mouth to respond to Thomas when a daunting shadow blocked out the streaming sunlight. Thomas froze, the sudden darkness seeping into his blood, the hair on the back of his neck stood up as he slowly turned his head up to meet the grimacing face of Mr. Janson.

"Now boys, as much as I appreciate this little reunion here. Truly heartwarming." He leaned in closer, getting down on his knees so he became eye-level with them. "I think it would be best continued somewhere else, say... scraping the gum off the bottom of each and every-one of these desks later this week?" He smirked, his beady eyes now staring directly into Thomas's.

  
"S- sorry sir," Thomas spoke, turning back to his desk face steaming with shame as he flipped his syllabus over refusing to look anywhere but down at it until the redness that had devoured his face receded. Janson stood for one more beat before Thomas heard him exhale loudly out his nose, and (using their desks as a support) lifted himself from the ground.  
Janson began talking again and this time Thomas forced himself to listen. Newt's presence like a persistent light bulb breaking through the darkness next to him, humming with energy, it felt similar to the way he felt when he was younger and his father had been showing him how the house's electricity worked. Thomas remembered the crackling of blue, zigzagging in no particular pattern. The way you could just tell it was live, the power it held, and the way he'd wanted to reach out his fingers despite knowing he'd get shocked. It was impeding, Thomas thought, he'd be lucky to get much work done in here this year.

Most of all though he wanted to know where the wings went, maybe he'd imagined them, that was always a possibility. His mother always told him his imagination used to give him so much grief when he was a child. That he'd scare so easy. He was so sure though, so sure they were real. Their soft gossamer-like feathers shimmering beneath the artificial yellow of a flashlight, the soft gasp that had escaped from his mouth, the childhood wonder of something being real. He'd never struggled to accept that ideology like he'd believed it anyway like he hadn't even needed to see it. Now he wasn't so sure. Now he needed proof, nothing intangible was real, nothing unseeable save for perhaps atoms and the like.

  
For all, he knew the boy next to him thought he was insane. Something in his stomach dipped as if he'd just dropped at the top of a coaster. What if that's all it had been? What if the look of shock Thomas had thought he'd seen was just confusion and now he had detention for nothing? But no- those eyes, those eyes. Like the tender earth, whole and warm, a shelter, but the moment they met yours, you felt as if you'd impacted the very ground they seemed to be colored after. The shock left reverberating up your arms and into your chest.

  
Thomas's leg shook furiously beneath the table with a sort of anxiety-induced energy as he drifted back into reality from his mental excursion. Janson was talking about linear equations and "review" for the beginning of the semester's plan. A set of worksheets was passed about and Thomas found himself mindlessly plowing through the numbers and variables. He'd always liked math, it was simplistic, logical, and everything made sense in it even when nothing else in life would.

Fifteen minutes had passed and Thomas pushed the now completed worksheets to the end of his desk, slouching down into his desk he began rhythmically tapping his pencil against the side of his leg. He didn't dare try to speak again, already unsure if Janson had been serious about the gum scraping or not; he'd have to ask at the end of class. Instead, he let his eyes freely wander about the room. Some people like Thomas had finished and were now doodling on their papers, others, worked quietly. Janson had seemingly terrified everyone into silence with his earlier remarks and aggression so the room was silent save for the soft scraping of pencils scribbling on paper and the low hum of technology. He could tell Minho was still working by the harsh scribbling sound emitting from behind him.

In an attempt to at least try to maintain some discretion, he flicked his eyes only to where "Issac" worked. His sheets were completely blank, each and every problem either blank or filled with a messy attempt at the numbers. And now, Thomas saw, he was simply doodling on the side margins of the paper. Little drawings of what looked like towers spiraling, their points piercing clouds, stairs, intricate gates of branching out vines. An entire city derived from graphite, completely alien to anything Thomas had ever seen in his life. Thomas wanted to lean closer, the drawings were quite good, hyper-realistic and detailed. Their soft lines like whispers of something more gracefully caressing the paper. He could tell there was more, but that rest was covered by Issac's arm. It was placed almost too carefully in a concealing position as if he were trying to hide whatever else he had drawn.

Thomas was debating fake getting up to grab a tissue just to see what could possibly be behind his arm when the bell rang and Issac quickly flipped the binder shut, completely concealing the sketches. Deflating, Thomas turned back to his own work, placing the syllabus inside his notebook and cramming into his backpack. Minho stood up at the desk behind him, completed worksheets clutched into his fist as he waited for his friend to complete packing up.

"Go on ahead," Thomas stood, swinging the bag over one shoulder, "I have a few things to clear up." Minho raised an eyebrow, eyes flicking to Newt walking out, and then back to Thomas. "Go," He egged him on again, this time waving his hand in a dismissive gesture- then- "I'll explain later."

Minho handed his paper to Harriet walking by as she offered to put it in for him, thanking her, before turning back to Thomas, "you better."

He sighed as his friend walked out the classroom, his own papers still in his hand. How the hell was he supposed to explain this? How do you explain to someone something you don't even fully remember yourself? He wasn't sure if that memory was even real, looking back. In that moment earlier it had felt so real. The way it had existed though was just so... fragmented, just a series of shots and visuals, it felt like a dream. So why was he so sure it hadn't been?

"Do you need something?" Thomas blinked snapping back from his thoughts to turn towards Mr. Janson, the dry paper still stiff in his hands

"I- I was just-" he stuttered, the sudden one-on-one with a teacher causing his mouth to flounder for a minute- a fish out of water- before he found his voice, "I was just going to apologize for earlier, and ask if you actually want me to scrape gum off desks." He fell silent, trying his best to stand calmly as he awaited the teacher's response.

Janson took the paper from his hands, eyes skimming the answers briefly before looking back up at Thomas and responding, "That was a warning," he began walking back towards his desk slowly. "Besides, it the first day, there isn't even any gum to clean off yet," Janson added Thomas's sheets to a stack on top of his desk- then turning back briefly, "Now get out of my classroom." Thomas nodded, stuttering his thanks and hurrying over to the heavy door.

The sudden hallway of humid air was oddly refreshing compared to heavy, weighted stuff he'd just been breathing in that room with Janson. He heard to door close with a soft click behind him and he started down the linoleum tiles towards his locker, sunlight spilling from the large panel of windows making up part of the wall opposite of the lockers. Whoever had designed that had clearly not been taking into account the idea of evaporation mixed with sweaty teens.

As he walked, he noticed the halls were oddly cleared out for the school having just been in session. They seemed bigger without all the students occupying space, more echo-y; he couldn't say he minded the pleasant silence rather than obnoxious screaming. Continuing down his steps rhythmic taps against the blue floor his mind drifted back to Issac.

Say maybe it had happened. Maybe he had found him in his past if that were the case what was he even supposed to do something like that? Did the situation even matter? For the thousandth time in his life, he wished everything had a formula to find the conclusion. It would certainly make life a lot simpler. Just insert the numbers corresponding to a and b to find the slope, he chuckled inwardly. Head now spinning with an odd mix of probability, and memories he couldn't remember he hardly noticed when he was directly in front of his locker.  
He sighed, resting his head against the locker and closing his eyes for a moment before pulling back and turning in the combination. He pulled out his English book wanting to get a head start on the story before the rest of his class and shut his locker. A loud clang ringing out of which he jumped at, the sudden sound alien in the dead quiet of the hall. He was just beginning to laugh at himself for his jumpiness when his peripheral vision caught the face.


	3. Wings

Thomas jumped, turning to look at who assumed was Minho, all set to tell him off for scaring the shit out of him when instead of eyes he found himself looking into a set of bloody holes. Thomas's breath fell short, his lungs paralyzed, as he stumbled backward into the lockers, wide-eyed and gaping. His fingers clenched into tight fists at his side as he looked closer into the spiraling red, it bubbled out in copious amounts of crimson, spattering all over the floor into a puddle. His breath stuttered in his throat as it came out in small, hiccupping gasps, his mind impossibly blank, impossibly flat lined, as all he could process was red. Red skin, red blood, red flesh. Throat, impossibly tight, his heart a frantic stutter in his chest, he stared into the pits. The fleshy skin surrounding the dark holes was shredded and hole-laden; behind them he could see nothing, only a sinister blackness.

It opened its mouth, and Thomas could only watch as it revealed a gruesome mash of human teeth, shattered and bloodied. Something else was coming out of his gums, something- no somethings dark and slimy. They emerged dripping with a black liquid of which was steaming and held the consistency of mud. Together it joined the mixture of blood on the floor sizzling and steaming where one ran into the other. A foul odor came from the raspy breath in the things throat and Thomas fought the urge to gag. His legs had become concrete pillars, as his mind screamed, burned to run, to run, to sprint. His body refused to obey through the fire lit in his brain burned through his veins as if it were a match- his blood gasoline.

A sharp set of all-canine teeth the color of charcoal rising through his now split gums pushed the cracked and broken teeth to the ground. The sound of the fragments like hail dropping to the floor in a cacophony of nauseating clatters as they spilled out over its lips. The thing lunged forward at him, pressing his body against the locker. Its face now mere inches from his he closed his eyes, the heartbeat in his chest a thundering set of pounds ricocheting about his ears and brain as if it were hollow. The thing screamed, an inhuman raw sound. The air around him felt like it was physically wavering; the molecules even, trying to escape from this, to run. The air was thin, his lungs gave out and he gasped for a breath nearly vomiting in the process as a sour-sickly taste burned down his esophagus. Eyes watering and running freely- everything was burning- with either heat or a cold so deep it gave the same impression, but no matter for he could no longer tell the difference as the scream still echoed through the halls of the high school.

Throughout the burning Thomas felt something else- a new sort of fire. This one in his chest. It burned behind his heart similar to as if he had just taken a shot of some vile liquid. He felt... stronger, he didn't think anymore, didn't calculate, his muscles and his brain connected and he pushed the diseased looking creature back. Fear left him for its friend adrenaline and he pivoted on his toe to turn and sprint but was caught as he slipped. The blood on the floor. The lack of friction on linoleum and his stupid tread-less shoes.

Before he could even try to recover the thing was on him, he felt its sharp nails claw at his back, all the while screeching and shrieking. The burning was back now as it touched him, his veins alight once more he lifted trying desperately to shake the thing off but it remained persistent. He could feel his energy leaking, spilling out of him into whatever this creature was- he reached a hand forward- the pain had become overbearing, every little nerve on his skin alight with mixed signals. One last stretch toward help as he moaned in agony. The lighting in the room became dimmed, little-colored spots danced in his vision and he felt himself slipping,  _ slipping _ -

Throughout the haziness of his fogged up brain he heard a clunking slamming sound echo out, the weight atop his back was knocked to the side and his eyes flew open once more. Energy surged back into his veins as suddenly he felt a sudden vitality return to him. Something else was there, something stronger, something humming with energy and power. He scrambled to his feet, almost slipping on the blood once more before finally finding the ground again. He turned.

At first he couldn't make out anything, his eyes swimming with the blackness still, he swayed and blinked. The world was still spinning around him despite the newfound power that had returned to his limbs, it flickered around him like a bad light bulb for a few moments before he could finally identify the large shape in front of him. Wings, gargantuan white feathered things. They seemed brighter than the light itself, the now dim sunlight seemed to avoid them, clouding around them as if to let them have their space. The figure connected to them was bent over whatever thing had been on top of Thomas only moments before. Thomas felt he should feel afraid, felt his pulse should still be skyrocketing, that his heart should be pummeling against his ribs like the jackhammer it had been moments ago.

For some reason though, the only feeling he could muster up was awe. He stood, face smeared and hands smeared with blood, reeking of whatever sour sulfur scent that was that clung to the air. Wide-eyed and still, sucking in deep breaths he'd been unable to fill his lungs with for what felt like ages. He took a tiny step forward, the shimmering feathers entrancing, pulling him in. A small dark smear of color called to his attention in the upper right corner and he shifted his gaze to investigate whatever it was.

With the initial sight of the wings, he hadn't noticed, but a closer look displayed a large patch of once pure white feathers, now blackened. They curled in on themselves, not aligning in a pattern with the rest of the feathers, some looked broken, others disintegrated. Beneath he could see a black leathery looking structure. He leaned closer, needing to see, needing to kno-

"What is with you, Thomas?" He jumped back, slipping on blood once more and collapsing straight onto his ass. Looking down at him, was Issac, or should Thomas say Newt. Thomas's mouth floundered in its openness, as he gazed up unable to speak. Newt had a dark red smear across his left cheekbone, and his chest heaved heavily, his teeth clenched as he glared down positively pissed.

"I- I," Thomas stuttered,

Newt's expression shifted as he looked at Thomas, the deep lines and forehead creases of his anger softening as he took in the expression of Thomas's face. He rubbed his eyes with the pads of his fingers and sighed, lifting a sleeve to wipe the smudge off his pale cheek before focusing back on him. "I'm sorry." He spoke, the red flush fading from his face, "Did any of it get on you?"

Thomas blinked back blankly.

"The black stuff," Newt said, folding in his wings and hurrying over to the ground where Thomas was. "Did any of the black stuff get on you?"

Thomas lifted his arms, looking over himself to check for any dark smears that weren't blood across his clothing. "Doesn't seem like it," he spoke looking back to Newt, "Why?"

Newt sighed with relief, palming a blonde strand of hair that had fallen into his face out, Thomas noticed his forehead gleamed with sweat. "Demon ichor," he spoke before adding, "blood of the demons, intensely acidic and hot, probably right along the table with sulphuric acid actually."

Thomas looked at the blood on his hands, then over to the body of the thing lying on the floor. "So that thing was a-"

"Demon, yes." Newt answered standing up and walking back over to the body, "Although this particular case looks like possession to me."

Thomas stood and walked over to join him looking down at the body; now that he saw it lying still he was better able to make out its features. Sandy blonde hair was mashed down on its head; the body that remained human was muscled and bulky. Perhaps that had been why Thomas had been unable to knock it off himself. Something about it looked incredibly familiar. He kneeled down to it, making sure to avoid any black smudges or puddles. A card was in its back pocket. Thomas slowly pulled it out- half terrified the thing would re-animate- and flipped brought it up in front of his face to get a closer look. The card was a shiny deep forest green laced with white stripes of which Thomas recognized as his school colors.

He turned the newfound student-ID over in his hand and came face-to-photo with the smiling face of the school's quarterback. An odd sort of shock overcame him, slowly at first, and then the disgust slamming into his chest- a blunt force - and he dropped the card turning and retching onto the bloody tiles.  _ Ben.  _ He heaved, his lunch exiting from where it had come in, at this point adding a mess to the tiles didn't matter. His body trembled, hands getting it the worst to where when the sick finally stopped he simply pressed himself against a locker and stared ahead.

The cool metal was relieving against his sweaty back and he rest a moment, processing everything, leaning his head back. _ Ben _ , a boy he'd known since third grade when he walked into Thomas's class as "the new kid".  _ Ben _ , one of the damned softest kids in the whole school despite being the quarterback, eyes gouged out, "ichor" dripping from mouth,  _ demons? _ He cracked his eyes open to meet the drab white ceiling tiles and fluorescent lights. In his peripheral vision could see Newt looking at him, and he sighed, figuring he ought to explain.

"I knew him," he spoke, "we weren't best friends or anything, but still-" his face flushed, a little embarrassed by his reaction.

Newt moved to stand in front of him, outstretching a hand to help Thomas up. "C'mon," he said, "Let's go somewhere else, this place smells like a dumping ground."

Thomas looked at Newt, an odd sort of horror painted on his face, stretched in the worried creases between his brows and the thin line of his lips.

"Shouldn't we- shouldn't we clean it up?" his brain was scrambled; his thoughts like puzzle pieces scattered. The sight of Bens body slumped on the ground, limbs unnaturally bent, face pressed into the ground, as blood slowly dripped from his gaping mouth to the ground was both appalling and magnetic. Thomas found himself unable to look away, nausea still bubbling in the pit of his stomach despite there being nothing there to throw up.

"Things from the otherworld's have a funny way of disappearing on their own," Newt responded, looking towards Ben's body. "The vomit, of course, we'll leave for the janitor." He shook his hand where it waited in midair, gesturing for Thomas to take it. "C'mon Tommy, my arm is getting sore."

Thomas, distracted by the sight still reached out a tentative hand without looking. He felt Newts firm grasp and a sudden upheave and the ground was all of a sudden beneath his two wobbly legs once more. Newt tugged him forward, "Let's go outside of this damned hellhole."

Still, Thomas lagged, "I feel bad," he said, "Cleaning it up is the least we could do."

Newt sighed, realizing he was still holding Thomas's hand he dropped it. "Well you bloody do it then, I'll wait," and he crossed his arms, leaning against the lockers, one foot propped.

Thomas turned on his heel and hurried down the hall, moments later emerging with a bucket and mop clutched in his still trembling hands. He stopped as soon as he arrived, stumbling backward eyes widened in shock. "Where- where did the body go?"

Newt looked up from his position against the wall, "Oh it disappeared now did it? I wasn't looking. I told you," he added, "things from the otherworld vanish on their own." He kicked off the wall, and Thomas noticed he couldn't see the other boy's wings anymore. "Now that," he pointed to Thomas's sick on the floor, "that's all you bud."

Thomas's face burned, colors creeping up his face from beneath the color of his shirt, he looked away, desperate to avoid Newts electric gaze. He set the heavy bucket on the floor, being especially mindful careful not to let any water-solution mix slosh over the side, and set to mopping.

"I assume you have some questions," Newt said, now sitting cross-legged on the floor as Thomas worked at the floor.

"Questions? Me?" he said, vigorously rubbing at the tiles, "Totally not. My classmate who was, according to you, possessed by a demon only just attacked me. Then, saved a boy who randomly showed up in my math class just today with gigantic fucking wings on his back." He paused, holding the handle of the mop with one hand and wiping a bead of sweat from his brow with the other, "why would I have questions?"

"Ok, well I can see you're clearly upset," Newt said, "But you knew I wasn't just some random classmate did you, Tommy?"

Thomas exhaled heavily through his nose, dipping the mop back into the water before pulling out and working on the floor once more with newfound vigor. "I don't know what I thought," he paused, "and, what is with the Tommy?"

Newt stood and walked over, taking the mop from Thomas. "I don't know," he said, "just something I thought of." He began working at the floor in smooth strokes, "my god you are incompetent at cleaning."

Thomas crossed his arms, pouting his lips in a frown. "Whatever, at least I don't swagger into math classes and sit directly next to the guy who found me in a bush at 3 AM in the woods then pretend not to know him."

Newt turned, eyes wide, face breaking into a grin, "aha!" he pointed, "so you do remember then."

"Just barely," Thomas mumbled off, " it's foggy. Like I dreamed it- like I dreamed you- it doesn't feel...  _ real. _ " He thought back to the memory, it felt clearer now, the fragmented pieces somewhat clearer. Now less like pieces of shattered glass, and more like puzzle bits. They fit together someway, the question was  _ how? _

Newt didn't look surprised, he shrugged, "that's just how it is when mortals come in contact with the otherworld."

"Well then why did you act like you didn't know who I was?" Thomas asked, lifting up the bucket, his body swaying with the weight of it as he began an awkward walk down the hall.

"I wasn't sure if it was actually you, besides, it's not like we were besties." Newt hurried behind with the mop. He had an odd sort of lean to the right with his hobbling run, and Thomas's attention was drawn to his leg, the left one specifically. With every hurried step, he'd over lean to the right, keeping the weight on his left light. The boy had a limp.

Newt noticed Thomas looking and he shifted his gaze downward, brain reaching for something to say. "You could've at least thrown me a bone so I didn't look like a gawking idiot," He eventually muttered, approaching the janitor's closet. He set down the bucket and took the mop from Newt before pulling open the door and tossing the tool inside. Turning back he swung the door and brushed off his hands on his jeans, looking back to Newt. "What are you even doing here? Shouldn't you be, I don't know," he shrugged, "up in the clouds playing the harp or some shit?"

A look of something Thomas couldn't quite recognize flickered across Newts face, his eyes turned of something steel before he spoke, "You saw my wings, Tommy, those look like a pure angels to you?"

Thomas's mind shot back to the sight of uneven feathers, of leathery blackness and molting down all twisted, and folded in an unnatural state, "well, not exactly?" He looked to the other boy's eyes for an explanation.

Newt sighed and began walking down the hall, "I haven't been to heaven in seven years."

Thomas hurried behind him, "Wha- but I thought," he took a moment to gather his words, "That's how long it's been since I found you," he said, voice dropping to a whisper as he leaned inward.

Newt paused in his walking, mouth open to answer before it clamped shut for a brief moment, "I fell."

Thomas blinked, taken aback. "Fell?" He asked, confused, "What like out of heaven?"

Newt paused, sighing before shoving his hand into his pockets and glancing around, avoiding eye contact with Thomas. "Yeah like 'out of heaven'" he finally answered, shifting his weight up to the balls of his feet and back down again. He sighed again, rubbing the pads of his fingers over his eyes and by his temples.

Thomas's brain stuttered as it struggled beneath the sudden information load. "So you're a-"

"Fallen angel, yes" he turned to look at Thomas, unwavering.

Newts sudden pinpoint gaze into Thomas's eyes had him stumbling backward. Fallen,  _ Fallen? _ How could he be fallen? It was as if the rest of the mess of information had been pushed aside as Thomas fixated on the detail. If Newt was fallen then- shouldn't he be bad, shouldn't he be the one attacking Thomas? He wasn't intensely religious or anything, actually not religious at all but he knew enough that those who fell, were more... sinister. To fall from heaven you must have-

"Don't worry Tommy," Newt scoffed, "look at that bloody expression of yours, like I'm about to bite your head off," he shook his head, taking a step forward. "No not yet," he continued, "I still have time before that happens, and no, before you ask 'what?' again I'll explain, just not here. We must've been here a bloody hour by now, they'll be wanting us to leave." Newt started walking towards the door, pausing to look back when Thomas didn't follow, "you coming?"

Thomas found his legs and scrambled after Newt, part of him figured he shouldn't be following someone like this, the other part begged for an explanation. He needed to know, to understand. So he followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!! If you enjoyed make sure to comment, leave kudos, and share. I'm excited to see where this fic will continue to go.


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